


Sweeter than Sugar

by GizmoTrinket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acephobia, Alternate Universe, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Bisexual John Watson, Case Fic, Coffee, Depression, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mary Morstan is Not Nice, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Suicidal Thoughts, Terrorists, brexit as an excuse for a crazy au, we all know how that works out don't we
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-08-20 03:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16548164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: The government had decided after Brexit that the way to fill jobs was not to allow immigrants on work visas, but to have everyone soldier through until there was a new generation. Of course, this meant there needed to be more children. For there to be more children there needed to be more marriages and, of course, for marriage there needed to be dating.There was a rumour going around that the government was planning on matching couples based on profiles and forcing them to wed. Thankfully it hadn’t come to that yet.Tall dark and handsome takes the seat across from John in a coffee shop.





	1. First Date

**Author's Note:**

> I started this for @fin__amour’s (on twitter) coffee shop prompt in September, abandoned it before the end of the month and decided to come back to it. It's my Nanowrimo project. I'm posting a new chapter a week to keep the momentum up to finish it.
> 
> My wonderful beta wishes to stay on anon but I can tell you that this would be a mess without their hard work.

“Is this seat taken?” the man asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, he just sat down before the words had even finished leaving his mouth.

John wasn’t sure how to go about protesting. He was here to meet a woman for a date. It had all been arranged through the agency and although she was over twenty minutes late he was still hopeful she should show. The Mary in the profile had been short, blonde and rather stacked. The person in front of John was the polar opposite. If Mary showed she might think he brought a friend or wasn’t able to get a seat for her despite her tardiness, it would be a poor showing on his part.

“I’m waiting for someone,” John said, with as much patience as he could muster.

“You’ve been waiting for thirty-five minutes, she’s not going to show,” the man said and took a long sip of his drink. He leaned back, crossing his long legs and stretching them out carelessly, brushing against John’s lightly.

John swallowed. The man’s white button-up shirt was tight, a size too small at least. The top button was undone and the pale column of the man’s throat moved with every sip, causing John’s own to tighten and his tongue to peek out from between his lips.

The man glanced over, running his pale eyes up and down John slowly but with a piercing stare, like he was reading John’s entire life, there was no sign of sexual interest at all.

Which was a pity, John thought. He hadn’t had sex since he returned from Afghanistan and some time before then too. He wasn’t opposed to sleeping with men, in fact, sometimes he preferred to. But he wasn’t looking for a relationship with one. John frustrated the men he dated and they could only tolerate him for short periods of time. He was fine working with men, it was only when they lived together that they’d had problems. He’d even had a platonic flatmate throw him out once.

So, he’d put down for only women to be matched with. Though, he was having quite a bit of trouble getting women to even agree to spend the required number of hours on a date with him. The thought occurred to him that it clearly wasn’t just men. Perhaps it was time to branch out and use his bisexuality to the fullest. If he couldn’t get his hours this week he’d lose his pension for the month and with his current work status he needed every pound.

The government had decided after Brexit that the way to fill jobs was not to allow immigrants on work visas, but to have everyone soldier through until there was a new generation. Of course, this meant there needed to be more children. For there to be more children there needed to be more marriages and, of course, for marriage there needed to be dating.

There was a rumour going around that the government was planning on matching couples based on profiles and forcing them to wed. Thankfully it hadn’t come to that yet.

It didn’t change the fact that John was well above prime marriageable age, his only real excuse being out of the country when the law changed and not forced back by Brexit  drama . The weekly hours he had to fill dating bordered on unrealistic when one considered he had a full-time job and needed to sleep.

And now another woman had either blown him off or ran off at the sight of him. His lunch break was almost over, he had no reason to stay, and he shouldn’t be late back to work. It’d take him at least ten minutes to walk back. His leg already ached at the thought.

John rubbed it under the table and sighed as he looked away, not focusing on anything other than his thoughts.

“I’m having trouble with the hour requirement too,” a deep voice rumbled.

John looked up to see the man staring at him.

“Oh,” John said, his voice tilting up slightly at the end. Not enough to be considered an opening or a question but showing enough interest to show the man he could continue if he wished without being rude.

The man pulled out his mobile. “What’s your number?”

Nonplussed, John asked, “What?”

“What’s your number?” the man asked again, slowly as if John were particularly dim-witted.

John was about to ask why when the man explained himself.

“You came here for a date, you might as well get some time, even if it’s not with a woman.”

With a frown John said, “You don’t have a girlfriend?” He found it hard to believe that the posh, elegant,  _ delectable _ man in front of him was single.

“Women aren’t my area.”

Oh.

_ Ohhh. _

“Boyfriend?” John had to ask just in case. Gay people and bisexuals in homosexual relationships were having difficulties, the idiots on the news claimed they weren’t doing their part to foster the next generation. It was nonsense, of course. There were plenty of people willing to surrogate and still a large number of children in foster care looking for loving homes. Enough people understood this that the relationships were still legal and there were plenty of laws protecting them.

Not that they were always followed.

The problem with the system was, asexuals existed. They were forced to go on dates and pressured to have sex. It was horrifying and no one seemed to care in the slightest. John had heard all sorts of hateful, ignorant statements that bordered on condoning rape, if not outright suggesting it.

The man gave him a long look, eyes narrowed.

John licked his lips, making his interest obvious in order to try to suss this man’s sexuality out. He didn’t want to pressure him into anything but he didn’t want to miss out if he were so inclined.

“I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m married to my work,” the man said.

John’s hopes fell. He tried to make it clear that he had no problem with asexuals. “Oh. I wasn’t… I mean, It’s fine. It’s all fine.” He continued talking, hoping to put the man at ease, to show him he was an ally, but he wasn’t sure he was successful.

Ignoring John’s pitiful rambling he said, “Still, I need to fulfil the hours and so do you.”

John nodded his agreement.

“So, I ask again, what’s your number.”

“Oh, uh,” John fumbled with his phone. He frowned as he pulled up the app. The man made it clear he wasn’t interested in a relationship. Technically, if John logged his time he’d be committing fraud, punishable by a rather hefty fine he couldn’t afford. John glanced up and decided he might as well, the government couldn’t even fill the unskilled jobs in the NHS, they weren’t going to be paying for people to entrap a washed out soldier.

John started saying his number slowly, wanting to give the man plenty of time to type it in but at his glare John ended up rattling through the last ten digits without taking a breath.

A notice popped up on John’s screen wanting his confirmation of a date starting.

“Mr Holmes?” John confirmed.

“Sherlock, please.”

John nodded. He hit the “yes” button and the button to log their location.

“Put the time in for thirty minutes before,” Sherlock said.

With a frown John fought with the technology to back the time. The feature was old and it was suspected it’d be disabled in the next update. It was common for people to get to talking and would forget to sign in, but it had been around long enough that everyone should know better. Or so said the paper.

He sipped his coffee, thinking it was warmer than he remembered and grateful for it.

“Your break is nearly over. Meet me for Chinese when your shift ends. There’s a nice little place just down from here. You can always tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle—”

“We’re going for dinner?” John interrupted. He had figured this was just a stranger taking pity on him and simultaneously using him. A mutually beneficial chance meeting.

“It’s been quite some time since you’ve dined out.”

That was true, but how did he know?

“I’m offering to take you to dinner and give you another hour or two.”

John was wary, this man seemed to know quite a bit more about him than he should. Perhaps it was a trap. One date and John to say he was hoping to change his mind. Another, so soon after the first, would be harder to talk his way out of.

As if reading his mind Sherlock rolled his eyes, “It’s not as if you have anything better on. And you could certainly use the food.”

“How do you know I don’t already have a date?” John asked, ignoring the barb about his slim figure. He’d lost quite a bit of muscle mass while he recovered and the depression he’d suffered from (still suffered from, really) had taken any bit of fat he’d had left after the infection got through with him.

“You were hopeful about this woman, you’re dressed in a cashmere sweater, not exactly normal for a doctor on shift. One always risks vomit when dealing with the ill. You waited far longer than any normal person would, that says you’re desperate. If you had a lot of responses you wouldn’t be desperate for a date. Being desperate for a date means you’re either having trouble gaining hours or the woman was particularly attractive.”

“How do you know she wasn’t?”

“You’ve written her number on your napkin. I looked her up.”

That bit of banter bordered on creepy and somewhat sinister. He sat for a moment and considered lecturing the man for looking up the personal number that someone else had given him. However, this man knew a lot more about John than a casual observer in a café should.  Curiosity warred with his afront and the curiosity won out.

“How do you know I’m a doctor?” John tried to keep his tone light when he asked the question but Sherlock sensed the shift in mood.

“I’ve sent you the address through the app. Message me when you’re about to leave and I’ll meet you at the restaurant.” With that, Sherlock stood and wrapped a blue scarf around his neck. He took John’s cup straight out of his hand and apeared to toss it into the rubbish in the bin on the way out.

John was irritated. Or intrigued. Both. He wanted a refill and now he’d have to pay full price for a new cup. Not really needing the caffeine he shrugged it off. Mostly he wanted to know why this man seemed to know so much about him.

“Sherlock,” John tested the name under his breath. It was a bit odd, much like the man himself.

He was halfway down the street before his phone pinged, noticing his location had changed and asking him if he needed to stop the timer on his date.

Forty-three minutes.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

John was at the clinic door before he realized his leg hadn’t hurt at all on the walk.


	2. Second Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my beta for looking this over. I messed with it after they had a look so all mistakes are my own.

Work dragged. John was a popular doctor and his patient load was heavy despite the complexity of the complaints. People requested him by name, or, “the doctor who actually checks stuff.” It irritated the office staff and the other doctors, John wasn’t popular at all.

What he was doing was technically illegal, though no one bothered complaining. Demand for medical supplies exceeded what the NHS could provide. Other countries sold them at exorbitant rates, punishing the people for their vote.

John hadn’t voted, access to news sources was sketchy when the political fights and scandals that ensued. With high paced work and the rough connection to internet sources, he was unable to keep as abrest on the political situation as he wanted. And then he found himself in the middle of a sequence of remote missions which impeded his ability to receive and mail in any vote in time. The shortage of food and supplies hit the army soon after he had been invalidated out. Sometimes he worried, scared his friends would all die because he used gauze in the office, possibly lessening gauze available to be sent overseas.

But, he was here, he was a doctor, he could still save lives. So, when he read the rules on when medical staff were allowed to use testing equipment, prescribe medication, or even hand out a bloody plaster he was incised but he understood and followed the directive.

Until, one day, a girl, about sixteen or so, showed up in his office. Her chart showed she’d been in and out of offices frequently, all with random symptoms. She’d been labelled a hypochondriac and John had been briefly tempted to dismiss her as well. She’d had abdominal pain, light vaginal bleeding, nausea, fatigue. John figured she was just having an odd period and asked all the normal questions, she wasn’t sure of her normal cycle, her boobs had been sore, bloating, nothing that gave John any indication there was immediate danger. When he got to the question about sexual activity she looked away and became evasive.

Since she wouldn’t specifically say she had sex he wasn’t allowed to use a pregnancy test and was encouraged to have her check with a pharmacy before returning anyway. But, wait times to see a doctor were long, up to two weeks if the complaint wasn’t considered urgent, and with her record…

John collected her urine and ran the test.

When it came back positive John didn’t bother going back to tell the patient. He picked up the nearest phone and demanded a spot in the hospital and an ultrasound. He had to call three different hospitals before he could convince anyone to take his patient. He didn’t realize she was hovering outside the lab door, listening to every word.

He took her himself, he worried, rightly, that they’d given him lip service and had no intention of following through.

When she got the news that she had an ectopic pregnancy she cried. John didn’t stick around longer than it took to get her into surgery. He had saved her life. He knew, and so did she, that if she hadn’t been assigned to him she would have died.

She told her friends, announced it on her blog and social media, bringing a storm of publicity. He paid a fine for using the test and quietly made a deal that if he paid for supplies out of his paycheque the NHS wouldn’t fine him again, and in exchange, he didn’t give interviews or tell anyone about the fine.

Word was out, Doctor Watson, war hero, saving lives once again despite all odds. When people became bored of reading about him the patient load lessened, but didn’t stop. He had multiple offers to work in a private hospital, but he stayed on at his surgery. He’d seen first-hand the economic problems and the struggles of the poor and he couldn’t in good conscience take a high paying job where he would abandon people like that girl to the doctors who wrote hypochondriac in her chart.

His work wasn’t glamorous, he did mostly get hypochondriacs in his office who left in a huff, claiming he was useless and threatening him and his family. He just laughed, his only family was Harry, and while she was happy to stay in contact with him he was guilty of frequently dodging her calls. He could only help people who wanted help, who could admit they had a problem and decided to change. Harry was none of those things and it was physically painful to watch her destroy herself. No one knew she existed and John was happy to keep it that way.

But every once in a while he helped someone who needed it and all the stress was worth it.

Each day was different and today was a particularly bad day. His entire morning had been filled with allergies and the flu and one patient who’d outright lied about their symptoms to get a second opinion about a benign cyst. Then Mary hadn’t shown and John’s depression started to creep back in. His life had value, he knew that, but he had nightmares and he knew how many people he’d never see, his calendar filled with urgent cases with no slots for anyone with a suspicious mole or equally sinister complaint deemed not worthy of a test kit and not dire enough to make it past the NHS rule-bound scheduler to get in with him.

His thoughts drifted to the gun in his bedsit. The bedsit he could barely afford despite his job, a job he likely wouldn’t have gotten without the personnel shortage, and his meagre pension. Well, even without his job and the costs it accrued he probably would have had to leave London long ago.

He tried not to think about how he’d have left.

The gun was still in the drawer. It no longer got cleaned every day, but it was taken out at least once a week. Sometimes after work, sometimes in the middle of the night when what little sleep he’d gotten had been a study in horror and pain and he had nothing to do but wait for the sun to rise.

Now, however, he’d met someone, completely by chance. And the colours were brighter and he was excited to get off work and looking forward to earning some of his dating hours.  Sure the man said that he was not interested in a relationship, but he intrigued John and he was interested in finding out more about the stranger. There was a whisper of danger there that called to him and the risk sang to his thrill-seeking tendencies.

If the other staff noticed his improved mood they didn’t acknowledge it. John’s patients were engaging. He had one possible UTI that turned out to be an STI, one kidney stone he diagnosed with a makeshift test he’d picked up in Afghanistan. It wasn’t flawless, but John had seen enough of the little buggers in dehydrated soldiers he felt confident in the diagnosis. The patient was referred to A&E for imaging, his wait time estimated ten hours. John felt sorry for the man, having to suffer so long, but had done all he could. X-rays couldn’t accurately find a stone, there was no guarantee it was made of calcium, and he needed an ultrasound or, preferably, a CT.

The other patients weren’t exciting, but he treated them with a smile. He rushed the last woman a bit, only a bit, he confirmed her pregnancy but left the paperwork for government aid for the next day. He breezed out the door, phone in hand and a smile on his face.

He was excited to see Sherlock again. It probably wasn’t healthy, it was highly likely Sherlock was a stalker or worse, but that risk made him all the more exciting.

John’s heart was racing as he opened the restaurant door. Sherlock was already seated, waiting for him. He smiled at John before turning his attention to his mobile. John sat before exiting the messaging screen and starting the date timer and marking his location.

John turned his attention to his date and his heart raced faster. Sherlock wasn’t traditionally attractive, but the way he held himself, how he examined him in the dim light, the fierce intelligence in his eyes but the hint of vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide beneath his layers of tailored suits and fitted shirts drove John wild.

Sherlock’s coat was off, draped over the back of his chair and John noted that his slim appearance wasn’t entirely due to the cut of his clothes and when the waitress came to take their order he dismissed her after John placed his, saying he wasn’t hungry instead of claiming to have eaten recently.

“When did you last eat?” John asked, the question slipping past his lips without any thought.

“Is that what you really want to ask?” Sherlock’s expression was blank but for a light in his eyes.

It was, the doctor in him really didn’t want to let it go, but he allowed the change in subject. “No.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up briefly, a small smile, an encouragement.

“Who are you?”

Sherlock looked disappointed. “I’ve told you, my name is Sherlock Holmes.”

John gave him a flat look. After a long pause, an opportunity for him to answer John’s actual question, John asked, “What do you do? How did you know I was a doctor?”

As if he were disappointed with John’s question his face fell. “Your cane.”

“My cane?”

“Yes. It’s obvious, you’d left it out on the side of the table plain for everyone to see.”

John didn’t understand. How did having a cane make someone a doctor?

Sherlock huffed disdainfully at John. “It’s not the cane, it’s the sticker you’ve put on it.”

“Oh.” John had forgotten about it entirely. He’d gotten an RAMC mug, stickers and a few other little things in a care package. He hadn’t planned on using any of it at the time but eventually, the mug made it into his cupboard and, after a nasty interaction with an ungrateful patient, John had stuck the sticker on something he’d always have on him. He wasn’t ashamed of his service. In fact, without it, he’d never been able to become a doctor in the first place.

“That’s the Royal Army Medical Corps insignia. So, you’re ex-army and medically trained. Not a nurse, you’ve worn those clothes all day and haven’t changed into or out of scrubs. There is only one medical office within walking distance of that café. You’re doing medical work, not office work, there is a spot of vomit on your shoe.”

John stuck his foot out the side of the table and looked down. He hadn’t noticed but there was vomit crusted around the bottom laces. Oh, that was gross. He wrinkled his nose.

“That surgery forces all patient care workers to change except doctors. That thin jumper wouldn’t be able to hide if your shirt had wrinkles from being stored in a locker.”

John was impressed. Still, it seemed a little flimsy. The vomit could be from anything and he could have acquired the cane from a charity shop. He was feeling a bit reckless so he told his date so.

“Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military, the tan line on your wrist, you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing, it’s faded and you’ve lost weight quickly.”

All true, but John still wasn’t convinced.

Seeing John’s expression Sherlock stopped talking and looked away.

“How did you know I was a doctor, really?” John asked. He already knew, of course. It was the same way everyone knew he was a doctor.

“You’re Doctor Watson, war hero and champion of the people,” he said this not as a moonstruck idolizer nor as a disgruntled citizen who hadn’t been able to make it past the scheduler. It was a statement of fact, a recitation from a news article or blog headline.

John eyed him for a few moments incredulously, wondering where he might have picked up such a line. “And you’ve been stalking me,” John said, a mildly bemused smirk tugging at the edge of his lips bemused to be finally getting somewhere. Somehow, he was also a tad disappointed, though he couldn’t figure out why.

“No,” Sherlock said with such finality John felt compelled to believe him. “I looked you up after seeing you in that café. I knew you were a doctor well before I approached you from my observations but it wasn’t until sugar was put in your drink that I started digging.”

“I don’t take sugar,” John said. He hadn’t tasted any in his drink either.

“I know.”

John was starting to feel a bit dizzy. His mind felt sluggish. Something was happening. What was going on? He looked at Sherlock, his pale face glowing in the fuzzy yellow light and the last thing he recognized was an expression of triumph and elation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sherlock, all disappointed over dinner that John hadn’t looked him up while he was at work.


	3. Second Date Continued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I made all the medical stuff up. If none of this works that way chalk it up to the au part of this au. :P
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving my American friends. Hopefully this update finds you well or gives you a much needed distraction.

The first thing John knew was that he had a massive headache. He opened his eyes, wincing at the fluorescent lights. He tried to raise his hand to block some of it out and realized he had an IV in. This wasn’t the first time John had woken up this way, and instead of feeling scared or worried he felt depressed. Had all that been just a dream? Was he just waking up after surgery? Did he have an infection still and he’d hallucinated everything? If he had to go through it all again he was sure he wouldn’t bother.

“Oh, good. You’re awake for real this time,” a deep voice said happily.

John narrowed his eyes and saw a man sitting next to his bed. It was Sherlock, still clad in the clothes from their date.

Looking around quickly John decided he was in hospital and wasn’t being held against his will.

He figured Sherlock had poisoned him and was here to either finish the job or threaten him. He steeled himself, he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Well, whatever fight he could muster in his current position.

Sherlock scooted his chair forward, scraping it against the floor. He hovered close to John’s face.

“They said that you’re ok. How do you feel? You are ok, aren’t you?” he asked.

John frowned. That was unexpected. It seemed like Sherlock was legitimately concerned about him.

It was good he didn’t get a chance to respond, he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He didn’t even know what happened, how could he know if he was ok?

A man with greying hair came in, introduced himself as Detective Inspector Lestrade and nodded a greeting at Sherlock.

John felt the hair prickle at the back of his neck. Either this man wasn’t with the police and a co-conspirator, he was with the police and they were unaware that he was drugging people (psychopath?), or, most terrifying, he was with the police and the police were in it.

“Can I ask you a few questions?” Lestrade took out a little notebook and a pen.

John was tempted to say,  _ “Do I have a choice?” _ but he refrained. He really wanted to talk to his doctor before he did or said anything.

“Uh…”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you now,” Sherlock interrupted and told Lestrade. “Here,” he handed John a chart. John’s chart.

John narrowed his eyes at him. How did he get this? Why did he have it? But, the curiosity of why he was here outweighed his suspicion and he flipped through it.

He’d been knocked out with an incapacitating drug but his chart didn’t make sense, the unconsciousness should have come on faster, while he was still in the café, and made him groggy instead of knocking him out so quickly. The drug shouldn’t have even been found, it wasn’t in a standard drug testing panel, in fact, it had to be tested for specifically. He glanced down, the drug that was used to counteract the effects was present in his system too.

Well, that explained the delayed and then cumulative effects. However, the date and times on both tests were the same, he’d had to have both in his system when he arrived.

He looked up at Sherlock. Which had he been responsible for? Or both?

“Yeah, heard your side,” Lestrade was saying, “and I still don’t understand how you knew which date-rape drug they were going to use, and how you managed to convince him to take it.” He looked down at John, waiting for an explanation.

John didn’t have one.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “I already told you, I had one of my network in place, feeding me information. I knew the plan and was able to act accordingly.” Sherlock looked at John apologetically. “I missed the correct dosage, unfortunately. But was able to prevent the kidnapping and murder.”

Murder? Someone was planning on killing him?

“And I didn’t give him the drug, I gave him the cure,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at Lestrade.

“You said, yeah,” Lestrade said tiredly. “But you haven’t given me a name or anything to go on.”

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and snapped at him, “Because they’re aware their plan didn’t work. They’re going to come after him again. I  _ need _ him there and you to keep out of it until I can get all their names.”

John waited, he was hoping to learn more, he guessed he wasn’t supposed to hear any of this before giving his statement.

But, Sherlock changed the subject as he looked to John with a piercing gaze once more, “You  _ are  _ ok, aren’t you?”

After giving the chart another once over John said, “Yes.” If what Sherlock was saying was true he definitely would have been kidnapped, and god knows what would have happened to him after that. That is, if the dosage of the drug hadn’t killed him outright.

Sherlock looked relieved. He relaxed and the subtle change in Sherlock’s features and postures made it clear to John that he had been quite worried.

John looked back down at his chart, feeling a little awkward. Even slightly ruffled and in the bright lights of the hospital, Sherlock was unbelievably attractive. He shouldn’t be thinking those things, he reminded himself, he was taking advantage. Sherlock said that he was not interested, and he must have been lying about being single, acting so that he could get close to John and save him.  It was impossible that a man with such elegance and sharp intellect was not already being courted by someone.

“Why do you even need to talk to John? I gave you the cups as evidence,” Sherlock said, and to John, it sounded like he was being protective of him.  Still, John frowned a moment and looked to Sherlock with curiosity as he had recalled seeing Sherlock throw his cup away… or something like his cup. Sherlock shot him a glance with a quirked brow and it suddenly occurred to him that it was a slight of hand trick.  A second cup thrown and purposefully done so any watching would not know that Sherlock was taking it away for evidence. Despite himself, a flash of admiration rose in his chest. Sherlock flashed him a slight smirk at the dawning realization on John’s features before focusing on Lestrade once more as he spoke about the case.

“Yeah, and I got your pictures, and the video, and you know I have to take his statement because it’s protocol and even though you don’t care about it I have to follow it.”

Sherlock huffed haughtily. “Fine, I’m going down to the cafeteria to get John some food. Be done by the time I get back. You’re interrupting our date.”

What? John looked at him, nonplussed. Was the date real? John had thought it was all just an act. Sherlock had his lips pursed and was looking at Lestrade defensively. When John looked to Lestrade the man looked flummoxed.

“What? You? A date? _ Really?” _

Well, that was rude. John glanced at Sherlock and though he hid it under disdain John could tell he was hurt.

“Yes,” John said, making it clear through an affronted tone that there was no argument and that Lestrade had crossed a line.

Lestrade ducked his head with embarrassment. “Right.” After a few seconds of awkward silence, he said, “Sorry.”

Sherlock nodded then and strode out of the room. He glanced back at John before shutting the door.

John told Lestrade everything he knew. He’d been at the café to meet a woman named Mary, he clicked over to his phone to get her number and saw that the date clock was still running. Not wanting to end it, John told Lestrade he’d give him the number later. The DI admitted Sherlock had already given it to him. He’d ordered a coffee, no sugar, drank it while he waited. He hadn’t tasted anything odd in it, he hadn’t watched the barista make it as he’d been looking for his date. He hadn’t left it unattended. Mary didn’t show, Sherlock had taken the seat across from him, they started talking and agreed to start a date. Sherlock had taken his cup once he was done with it. No, Sherlock hadn’t been left alone with his drink. No, he didn’t think Sherlock could’ve slipped anything into his drink.

Lestrade nodded, wrote a bit after John finished talking and asked some follow-up questions.

“Do you remember anything about the barista who made your coffee?”

“No,” John admitted, feeling like a bit of an idiot. “There were three employees behind the counter,” he added so he wouldn’t seem so oblivious.

“Are you gay? You said you were waiting for a woman?”

John felt his hand and jaw clench. What the hell kind of question was that?! He didn’t feel he should answer it but he wanted to cooperate. “I’m not gay.”

“Then why did you decide to go on a date with Sherlock?”

“Why the hell do you care?!” John snapped.

Looking a bit sheepish but continuing anyway Lestrade said, “Sherlock isn’t exactly…  _ dateable _ .” He emphasised the word, making it clear how he felt about his colleague. Before John could argue he continued, “And I know he’s having trouble getting his hours. If it turns up that you’re having trouble getting yours too…” he trailed off and John knew he’d already looked John up and was just waiting for him to lie.

“I’m  _ bisexual, _ ” John explained, he emphasised the word, making it clear how he felt about Lestrade and his line of questioning. “And for your information, I find Sherlock exceedingly attractive and was happy to go on that date and was looking forward to our dinner.”

Trying to save himself Lestrade said, “Well, you have to admit he’s a little…” and made a noise indicating inadequacy.

“Stunning? Brilliant? He opens his mouth and he’s dazzling. Have you heard how he thinks?” John asked. He was broaching belligerent but, really, this was way out of line and beyond any kind of scope when it came to the investigation. Sherlock might be a little strange, but it wasn’t a bad strange. He had saved his life! Probably. John knew that if the man had just told the police about the plot he likely would have been ignored. Scotland Yard was as underfunded and understaffed as everywhere else.

“His deductions? Yeah,” Lestrade said. He frowned but didn’t antagonize John further.

The next questions he asked were if Mary contacted him first, she had, and what site they’d used to find each other, the matching section of the government site, and if Mary had contacted him with an excuse or since, she hadn’t.

“So, Sherlock works for you?” John asked, trying to figure out if he should file a complaint about Lestrade to his superiors.

“He’s a consultant. We’re so understaffed we accept his help.”

“He doesn’t get paid or anything,” a woman said as she entered the room, she’d clearly been eavesdropping.

“Donovan,” Lestrade greeted.

“He does it because he likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off and you know what?” She only paused long enough to take a breath. “One of these days it won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will have put it there. He’s a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored.”

“That’s  _ enough, _ ” John said darkly. “Sherlock Holmes saved my life, he is no psychopath, if he were he would have let me die. He’s helping you for nothing and you’re being ungrateful. I’ve answered all of your questions now kindly  _ piss off.” _

Donovan narrowed her eyes but Lestrade put his hand on her shoulder and tilted his head to the door. She pursed her lips and left, nose in the air.

“Thank you for your time,” Lestrade said. “We’ll contact you when we have more information.”

“Ta,” John said, glad that he’d managed to get rid of them.

John wasn’t positive Sherlock had saved his life, he didn’t think he could be without more evidence, but Sherlock’s behaviour in the hospital made John feel like he could trust him. His gut was rarely wrong and he was only mentally holding out because he was stubborn.

Sherlock slid in a minute after they’d left, a container of food in one hand and a steaming cuppa in the other.

“Ta, Sherlock,” John said, softer and with a smile on his face when he rolled the over bed table over and set the food on it.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, the words heartfelt and quiet.

John understood from his body language that he’d heard the conversation with the police and John’s response to it.

He smiled softly at his date, “It was the least I could do after you saved my life.”

Sherlock flopped back into his chair. “That’s the thing, John. I’m not sure they wanted to kill you. The group is torn. Some of them want to kill you, the others don’t.”

“What is this group and why do they want me dead?”

“They go by many names, most likely so no one catches on to the size of their organization. The Brexist, Uniteers, UKOK, nearly all of the violent revolutionist sects, and several nonviolent ones too.” Sherlock looked straight into John’s eyes. “Their stance has always been that the government is killing people with their policies. So, when the news got out that there’s a doctor helping people and not getting into any trouble the discussion changed from the government hurting people to people being selfish and hurting each other.” Sherlock said all this without giving any sign that he was on one side or the other. “You’re a threat, John. You weaken their cause by offering help to people they don’t want aided. Most of them want to kill you and make it look like their enemies, the people who support the government, did it. There’s even a note written up explaining that you were going against the rules and needed to be made an example of.”

John wrinkled his nose. He knew people were gullible but it didn’t sound like enough people would buy that.

“Of course, there were others that were going to implicate you in all sorts of crimes so when you showed up dead it looked like you were always a monster and negate all the good you did.”

Now  _ that _ sounded like it would probably work. It’d probably dissuade anyone from trying to follow in his footsteps too.

“But they’ll be killing people by killing me. All those people I help every day will remain untreated!”

Sherlock shrugged. “The greater good.”

John sighed.

“When did people get so crazy?” he asked. The world wasn’t like this when he’d left for Afghanistan. Had he been transported to a different universe when he’d been shot?

“People have always been crazy, John. They’ve just stopped hiding it.”

John shook his head dejectedly. Sherlock was probably right.

“Eat. They’ll be kicking you out soon, private hospital or not they don’t have the room to keep you much longer.”

Glancing back at the chart John noted the hospital name. Jesus, he’d never be able to pay this bill. He didn’t have private insurance.

Nothing he could do about it now. He’d request to be discharged as soon as possible and refuse all further tests and treatments. He’d figure something out to pay what he already owed.

He started eating, noting that the food was very good, and not just for a hospital. He’d be happy to be served this meal in an upscale restaurant.

Despite not being very hungry he ate all of it. Who knew when he’d be able to afford to be full again?

Sherlock watched his every movement. It should have been unnerving, but John found that he didn’t mind. Sure, Sherlock was studying him, and it did feel a bit like he was an insect, but he wasn’t scared that he was about to be killed and pinned for a collection. He could see how other people might think that, if they were idiots, but it was like John was a puzzle and with enough study Sherlock could figure him out.

“Are we going to continue dating?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered quickly. He seemed to be embarrassed and he added, “If you want to.”

John did, and he was just about to say so when Sherlock said, “I still need the hours and so do you. I haven’t changed my mind about marriage. But, I think it would be best if you stayed close until I round everyone up.”

“Alright,” John agreed. He made a mental note to be extra careful, Sherlock must see how interested John was in him and was setting boundaries now. John didn’t want to accidentally pressure him or make him feel uncomfortable in any way. He hoped that after this they could be friends. He wished he knew more about him so he wouldn’t misstep.

“Now,” Sherlock said, “Here’s the bag with your belongings, get dressed and let’s get out of here. I want you to look at the CCTV footage of the café.”

When John stood his gown rode up and Sherlock excused himself. John cursed mentally. He hadn’t even made it five minutes before he failed and  embarrassed himself. He got dressed quickly and decided that he had to try harder.

Sherlock was pacing impatiently outside the door.

“I think I have to sign some things—” John started.

Sherlock cut him off, “No time. Come on.”

He set a fast pace with his long legs, his coat billowing out behind him. John hurried to catch up.


	4. Boom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta for pointing out all the things out that I should know but forgot. They made this brilliant instead of lacklustre.
> 
> Sorry for posting a few days late.

Sherlock led John out of the building where he hailed a cab so quickly there must have been one waiting for him. The cab took them to central London, down a quiet street and dropped them off at two, two, one Baker Street.

Mentally John whistled. It wasn’t just posh clothing then, Sherlock had some money. This was a prime spot. He couldn’t imagine how much he paid to live here. John was glad Sherlock hadn’t asked to go to his place. He didn’t like his bedsit but it suited his needs. He felt a bit ashamed of how he was living compared to this man, who did work for the police and didn’t even take pay.

The feeling lasted until they made it into the flat.

It was huge, but it was a disaster. There were half empty boxes scattered about, a pile of newspapers in the corner yellowed with age, every flat surface was buried in random things John couldn’t see why one would keep. The air was stale and smelled like dust, tobacco and decay.

John figured this man lived off family money, used to having a housekeeper and even though John’s bedsit was small and in a bad area of town he kept it clean. He worked hard for what little he had and when Sherlock moved a pile of moth-eaten jumpers off the couch so he could sit John didn’t feel superior, but he no longer felt inferior.

Sherlock opened a laptop, typed a bit and dropped it on John’s lap. John swallowed thickly while Sherlock was bent over him.

“Watch all of it,” he set a notepad and a pencil on the keyboard. “Take notes on anything you find unusual or people you recognize.”

John nodded.

When Sherlock said, “I’ll just… tidy up a bit,” self-consciously and set off to do just that John realized he’d been staring at him.

He shook his head to clear it—he really needed to reign himself in—and pressed play.

Over three hours later—Sherlock had made him watch an hour and a half before he arrived and a half hour after all at normal speed—John rolled the kinks out of his neck. Sherlock had gone to the loo so John wandered around, looking at things. Sherlock had many books, but John couldn’t find a theme to them. He was fond of nonfiction, a lot of books revolved around crime solving, but there were also texts on chemistry, religions, superstitions, anatomy, botany, geology and music, among many other things.

John saw the violin and stand, music out and a pen. He took a closer look at the music stand and the sheets of handwritten music upon it and realized Sherlock composed. He wondered how the piece sounded and if he could ask Sherlock to play it for him.

When he got to the table the laptop had been sitting on, he saw it loaded with crime scene photos, news articles including one labelled, “Brexit Opposition Terrorists Strike Again”. He flipped through them until he found a bunch about him. Under those were copies of blog entries and hand-written testimonials. None contained his photo, and John was fairly certain nothing written about him ever did. It occurred to John then that perhaps Sherlock hadn’t been lying when John wanted to know how Sherlock knew who he was. With the information from these articles Sherlock would have been able to put a face to the name with the cane and the clothing he’d been wearing in the café.

John stopped snooping then. He sat back down on the couch and decided against asking Sherlock to play for him. They weren’t actually dating, just pretending to, and it was a rather personal thing to play music for another person, especially something you’d written.

He started to wonder if he should leave. He had a gun and he’d be more careful now that he knew someone was out to get him. He really didn’t need to be babysat.

Sherlock came back in and looked over John’s notes, nose wrinkled.

“Is this all?” he asked.

“Yes,” John said, feeling a bit defensive. There wasn’t that much to see with the angle of the camera. John had seen the employee that emptied a vial of something into his drink but he didn’t recognize her.

“Did you even notice I switched your coffee?” Sherlock demanded.

“Yes,” John snapped. “I just didn’t think I should write that down. You were there for that bit.”

“What else did you think you shouldn’t write down? Everything is important! The littlest detail could be the key! Watch it again.” Sherlock brushed past John to the laptop.

“No,” John was irritated. He’d seen the woman drug his coffee, he’d seen Sherlock watch her and frown, join the line, walk away with two cups before putting one in his pocket, tipping a vial of his own into the drink he’d stashed in his coat pocket. He’d seen Sherlock swap the drinks when John was lost in thought about his leg. He’d seen the important bits. He had evidence, but he hadn’t needed it. He saw how Sherlock was when he’d been in the hospital, he’d talked to Sherlock, he’d listened to everything Sherlock said and didn’t. And he appreciated all of it, he really did, but he was tired. The drug-induced slumber hadn’t been restful and John was beyond worn out. He needed to go home, he had work in the morning and he’d need to be rested if he was going to be on guard all day. It was three in the morning as it was.

“’No’?” Sherlock asked, stepping back in dismay. “What do you mean, ‘No’?!”

“Sherlock, I’m tired. This fake date has gone on long enough, don’t you think? We don’t need to raise any red flags. I have work in the morning and—”

“You can’t go to work. They’ll know you’ve spoken to the police, they’ll be waiting for you there! Come to think of it, they know where you live. You shouldn’t go home either.”

“Sherlock,” John said warningly. “I am going home, I am going to sleep and then I am going to work. I’m not going to let this interrupt my life.”

“You want to save people, yes? That’s why you keep going, to feel like you’re making a difference? That your continued existence is needed? How many people are you going to help if you’re dead?!” Sherlock yelled the last sentence vociferously.

“I might die anyway! Even if I hide away they might find me! I need to help as many people as possible until I can’t anymore!” John shouted back.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow and said calmly, “We both know that’s not why you’re doing this.”

John knew he was talking about his depression. How John wouldn’t mind if they killed him. How it would be a bit of a relief, honestly.

He didn’t have a response but he wasn’t going to give in, either. He wasn’t going to be hidden away. The threat might never be contained and he was a soldier, he wasn’t going to be cowered.

When he stood Sherlock said, “John, see reason, please.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” Deciding that was a bit harsh John turned back in the doorway. “Call if you have any information I need to know.” And with that, he turned and headed down the stairs. He ended the date when he got on the street and it took all his willpower not to look back.

When he made it home he checked his locks, twice, and his gun three times. He took it with him when he went to the loo and put it under his pillow when he got in bed.

Despite being exhausted, he couldn’t get to sleep. His mind was racing, thinking about all the horrible things people could do to him while he was drugged and whether they’d be worse if he weren’t.

The night passed slowly and John wondered if Sherlock would have taken him in; if he would’ve if John should have stayed there. He probably wouldn’t have gotten any sleep but he wasn’t getting any here either.

He sighed and thought about Sherlock. The man was interesting. John didn’t mean that in a bad way. Sherlock was clearly smart— the police didn’t like him so he must be brilliant, not that John didn’t already know that. Sherlock may have lied to him but there was no way he could have learned about the depression from anyone. John didn’t tell his therapist and John knew she didn’t know because she never wrote it or asked him any questions about it since he got his job. Plus, having a person willing to infiltrate a terrorist group for him was no small feat. John wanted to learn more.

John couldn’t help thinking about Sherlock’s person. He was tall, lean, graceful and even though his body wasn’t traditionally attractive there was something about it that drove John wild. Was it his neck? The long pale column attracted his attention enough that John had noticed the freckles. He wanted to lick them. And his lips. Oh, god. So plush and pink, the cupid’s bow begging for a nibble. The bottom lip too.

And those cheekbones!

Never mind the hands.

The fierce intelligence in his eyes, the complete control he demanded of himself.

The straining buttons.

John wanted to make him moan, to render him incoherent with pleasure, to watch that light fade as he focused only on his body. To have all that pale skin laid out below him, flushed, limbs shaking…

Without thinking John’s hand moved down, reaching into his pants. He stroked himself twice, wondering if Sherlock would want to be penetrated or if he would take control, reverse their roles and make him beg. Turn that sharp intellect and use it to bring John to pieces.

It was only then that John remembered Sherlock was asexual, and worse, not interested in him romantically. It was as if he’d been doused with cold water. John had been on a date with him, but, as he kept reminding himself, those dates were fake, and it was wrong of him to masturbate to him. It was a matter of respect. If he wanted to keep seeing Sherlock, and he did, even after the danger was gone, he couldn’t keep thinking about him that way. Sherlock was frighteningly perceptive and bound to tell. He was not sure how Sherlock would react but he was not inclined to find out and face the embarrassment and rejection again. 

Knowing that if he tried imagining someone else his thoughts would betray him he willed his desire away. He was wound up now, though, and any chance of sleep that he might have had was completely gone.

He got out of bed and went to his laptop.

After a quick search of Sherlock’s name, he found his website, the science of deduction. There, Sherlock described his methods and had some of his cases written up. John read all of it, twice. It was incredible, bordering on impossible. If John hadn’t met him he wouldn’t have believed a word of it.

His body gave out, even if his brain wouldn’t, and John crawled back into bed. He was dozing when his alarm went off.

With a groan, John got out of bed. He rubbed his face and yawned. He briefly considered calling off but decided against it. Even if he got to sleep he’d be depressed about missing work.

After his morning ablutions and finding some clean clothing (looked like he needed to do laundry), he made his way to work. He nearly fell asleep on the tube but someone hit him in the face with their laptop bag. He was too tired to be angry about it, plus it made sure he didn’t miss his stop.

Somehow he’d made it to work thirty minutes early. He shuffled in, said hello to their scheduler and entered his office. He started in on the paperwork he’d left himself from yesterday and dozed off in the middle. He got up to grab a mug of coffee from the break room when something caught his eye. He turned his head and looked in the waiting room.

There was Sherlock, nose in a magazine, looking for all the world like a walk-in patient determined to stay all day for a chance to see a doctor.

John decided to ignore him. He had no desire to make a scene and Sherlock probably wouldn’t leave even if he did. He made his way down the hall, wondering how on Earth he was going to stay awake today.

He poured his coffee and glared at the clock on the wall. It seemed to be ticking louder than usual. He looked back to his mug then looked again at the clock.

The clock that wasn’t moving. The time was stuck.

John broke out in a cold sweat. He tried to tell himself this wasn’t Afghanistan, that there wasn’t a bomb here to stop his panic. He always got worked up when his PTSD hit. There was never any danger, it was all in his head, and that was so much worse. But something was still tugging at the edge of his senses.

Then, it clicked. Just because John wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore didn’t mean there wasn’t any danger.

He tilted his head and found the source of the sound under the break table. He leaned under and there it was, a crude bomb, timer ticking away.

“Fuck,” John said under his breath.

Turning to the closest phone, he pressed the speaker button and gave swift sharp instructions. “The clinic is closing.  Everyone needs to evacuate the building as swiftly as possible.” That done, he called the front desk and gave brisk instructions to continue evacuations and why.

The scheduler at the front desk gave a long pause before responding but confirmed his instructions and began relaying instructions for people to evacuate the building before calling the police. He could hear the nurses and other doctors began the process of helping to usher people swiftly out of the building while he leaned over so as to get a second look and the amount of time on it.

Sherlock, the madman, stood and started walking back to the breakroom, entering just as John was straightening to leave.

John cursed as he saw Sherlock enter. Grabbing his arm, John and spun him to the door. “Get out of this building or so help me I will knock you out and drag you myself.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue but John wasn’t going to have it. He steered the man out and dragged him down to the street as he hurried from the building.

“John, let me go. I want to see, it’s evidence,” Sherlock rambled on and tried to wiggle free more than once.

When he finally broke free the building exploded. John threw himself over Sherlock, pinning him to the ground.

John could feel the heat of the resulting fire and his ears were ringing. He looked up to see people nearby screaming, running, the street littered with injured bystanders from the rubble that was sent flying.

“Oh, god.” John’s voice was muffled in his own ears. “Oh my god.” He stood, sparing a glance for the soldier beneath him. The man was shocked but otherwise seemed fine. He wasn’t in uniform but that wasn’t important now.

John started running toward the source of the explosion. He needed to help any people still left inside. He was a doctor. He reached for his backpack, his med kit, but he wasn’t wearing it. He turned to grab his gun but he didn’t have that either. He faltered, coming to a stop.

What was going on?

All of a sudden he was grabbed from behind. He turned, grabbed the arm and twisted it, not enough to break it, it might be an ally getting him his things, but enough that if it wasn’t he would have the upper hand.

It was the soldier.

“John! John, snap out of it! This way, we need to get away from there.”

The voice was deep, he could hear the words, but it was like they were coming from a distance. He turned back to the injured. No one was helping them. He was needed there.

“John!”

He looked back and took a fist to his face.

His head swam and while he was disorientated he felt his body being lifted up, thrown over a shoulder, and he was moving away from the scene.

He blinked, knowing he was missing something, something important.

Another explosion and they were both bowled over by the force.

John was trapped under someone.

He couldn’t breathe.

Oh, god.

The weight was lifted off his chest. The body wasn’t a body at all. It was a tall man in a long woollen coat. Messy curls haloed around angular features.

“John,” he said, “Get up, we have to go, we have to get out of here.”

The familiar voice finally seeped into him as sharp turquoise eyes locked with his own. The world snapped and John realized where he was and what was going on. He scrambled to his feet and put out the fire on the back of Sherlock’s coat.

“C’mon, they’re targeting you. We need to run.”

John took the extended hand, holding tight to Sherlock’s long-fingered grip as they sprinted  away .


	5. Third Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry about the advent fic messing with this schedule. I have the next four chapters written so if I get behind it's not a huge deal. Me forgetting to post on Wednesday, however, is a huge risk. lol
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, who pointed out I was being an idiot and helped me fix it.

John was led into a coffee shop. He fell into the only empty seat in the place, ignoring the protest of the other patron at the table. Sherlock patted his shoulder and told him he’d get them drinks.

It was horrible, but John could feel himself smiling. His blood was singing in his veins. He was alive. The time he had been spending with Sherlock had been making him feel truly  alive for the first time since he’d come back.

He looked over at Sherlock, who was busy looking at his mobile and grinned at him. His coat was singed, his hair was wild, his face was flushed and there was a light sheen of  perspiration on every bit of exposed skin.

John’s own mobile beeped and John looked at it. The screen was cracked but looked like it would still mostly work. The alert was from his dating app. It read,  **Date Start Request: Sherlock Holmes** . John clicked start. He was shocked at how many  hours he already had. But, he had been unconscious for a fair number of them.

Even though he wasn’t actually dating Sherlock—the man had made that clear—John was starting to wish he was. He wouldn’t normally date an asexual person, it wasn’t that he had a  problem with them, but he always felt like sex was necessary for him to feel  close to someone. He’d be happy to be friends with an asexual, but marrying  them, resigning himself to a life of celibacy, was unthinkable. He was a sexual  creature (overly sexual if you asked some of his past partners) but seeing that  date counter running with the name Sherlock Holmes warmed John.

He was fairly certain it wouldn’t work. It couldn’t, could it? John knew other couples made it work, and not all of them were both asexual. He’d never done any research into the subject. 

P erhaps he was being close-minded .

Though, if he was, how would he find out?

After a quick glance to make sure Sherlock was still in line and distracted John did a search on his phone for asexual relationships. The search page had just loaded when someone  tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” a woman said.

John did a double take then swallowed thickly. He had to make a conscious effort not to stare at her chest.

The person whose table he’d stolen cleared  his  throat pointedly and John stood, thinking this woman was his date.

“Sorry,” he said and stepped away. 

She didn’t take the seat. Instead, she moved with him.

“John Watson?” she asked, tilting her head with a smile.

John narrowed his eyes. They’d been followed. It was a good thing she was here, the patrons of the shop were safe, at least. They wouldn’t blow up a building with one of their own in it.

“Who’s asking?”

“Come with me please,” she said pleasantly.

John glanced up at Sherlock. Was he ok? Did he know what was going on?

“Let’s leave the civilians out of this, shall we?”

A flash of light caught John’s eye from outside the window and he saw a sleek black car pull to the kerb. He couldn’t see inside. They’d found him, cornered him. They could kill  him easily, they could kill everyone in the café.

They could kill Sherlock.

John followed the woman out of the café and into the car.

John clenched his fist as the door closed. He had no grantee they wouldn’t just kill Sherlock or blow up the café anyway. He watched the building as they pulled into traffic. He  couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Sherlock come out and look for him. He  hoped whatever he did he would be careful. Sherlock seemed to have no  self-preservation instincts. He really needed to have a conversation about  running toward vs running away from bombs. How had he managed to survive this  long?

They turned a corner and John took stock of his surroundings.

The woman’s thumbs were flying over her phone, she didn’t seem to care that she was in an enclosed space with him. Either she didn’t know he was dangerous—extremely unlikely—or  she was just as dangerous--if not more so.

John reached for his cane, wanting to have it ready in case she attacked. Even though it wouldn’t be easy to wield in this enclosed space it might come in handy.

His hand moved around, clasping only around air and leather upholstery. He looked down, alarmed, and searched for it.

It wasn’t there.

“You haven’t used your cane for over twelve hours,” she said, without looking up.

John looked at her, then thought about it. It was true. He hadn’t taken it from the  restaurant , he couldn’t’ve, not with him being unconscious, but he didn’t have it in the hospital, hadn’t seen it since and had not even noticed its absence until now.

To cover up his surprise he said, “Where are we going?”

She ignored him, fingernails clicking against the screen as she typed.

John’s phone pinged, reminding him that he had exited the area. He ended the date. The woman glanced at him briefly at the sound but went right back to ignoring him.

“Is there any point in asking where we’re going?” he asked without much hope.

“None at all,” she had with a sympathetic smile John found disarming.

She didn’t mean him any harm.

He didn’t think so, anyway. His gut told him that she wasn’t part of the terrorists that wanted to kill or do something horrible to him. Maybe she was on his side?

He wondered if she was available. She was very pretty, and John wouldn’t say no if she took him to a room with a bed—

Well, actually, he would.

He was worried about Sherlock. He didn’t need to be thinking about getting a leg  over right now. He needed to get this kidnapping over with so he could make  sure Sherlock was ok.

He was driven down a car park, to the lowest level where a man in a suit was waiting. He was posed, legs crossed and hand on a long black umbrella.

John recognized a weapon when he saw one. It might not be a cane sword but even if it wasn’t it was better than John had. The man already had reach advantage in a fight, the  umbrella gave him more. Once again, John wished he had his cane.

“Good morning,” the man said, the words oozing out of his mouth once John was out of the car and standing across from him.

“Morning,” John said, shortly and with a nod. He kept as much distance between them as he could.

“I would say you have nothing to fear from me, but it wouldn’t be true,” he said, swinging his  umbrella.

John waited for the man to say something he didn’t already know.

“What’s your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, letting the tip of the umbrella fall to the ground.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," John said.

"You're spending an awful lot of time together," the man drawled. 

“We’re dating,” John said.

The man gave him a flat look. “What’s your relationship, really?”

John knew that the man knew their relationship was fake, but he couldn’t prove it unless either John or Sherlock said. And since John wanted it to be real anyway he said, “Why does  everyone find that so surprising? I like Sherlock, I think he likes me—” the  man made a sour face at that, “—we’re dating.”

“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t  _ ‘like’  _ people,” the man said, stressing the word like with a sour look.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like  _ you,” _ John said. He felt alive and he couldn’t resist poking the bear.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” the man said, ignoring John’s jab.

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John said with a tight smirk.

“Looks can be deceiving.” The man changed the subject then, “I’m interested in Sherlock’s going ons. I would be willing to pay you to keep tabs on him for me.”

John chuckled darkly. Now the woman’s actions made sense. This man wasn’t interested in him, not really. He was after Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t said that anyone was after him, but it made sense that he had enemies.

“Not interested,” John said.

“I haven’t named a price,” he replied.

“You don’t need to,” John said. This meeting was not what John was expecting at all. He’d come in expecting to barter his life, not talk about Sherlock.

“Come now, John, you’re not a wealthy man. Think of all the people you can help with the money I give you.”

That was a low blow. 

John said coldly, “I’m not interested in spying for you.”

The man sighed and took a little book out of his breast pocket. John recognized it, it contained his therapy notes from his sessions with Ella.

“Trust issues,” the man looked up and met John’s eye.

“How did you get that?” John demanded. Had he put Ella in harm's way? Was she ok?

The man ignored his question. He snapped the book shut. “Could it be you trust Sherlock Holmes?”

What did John say to that? Yes, he trusted Sherlock Holmes. He couldn’t say so though, if he did it might put Sherlock in even more danger than he already was. There was a possibility this  man was after him and was using Sherlock as a smokescreen. Why else would he  have gone after Ella’s notes?

But the man wasn’t saying anything else and John decided to take a risk.

“Are we done here?” he asked.

“Are we?” the man asked in response.

Well, John was never going to take that money. Nothing else had been discussed. 

“Yes, I think we are.”

And then John found himself back in the sleek black car with the typing woman.

“Where to?” she asked.

“My flat,” John said, knowing that these people knew where it was. He didn’t want to lead them to Sherlock if they didn’t already know where he lived.

He wasn’t quite sure what just happened; if the man had been interested in Sherlock or John or both and what he really wanted, but he’d come out alive so he figured he did something right. Now he needed to find Sherlock.

They pulled up outside and John checked the door and flat for bombs as best he could. He found nothing and took out his duffle. He was able to fit all his belongings into it and he found  that fact a bit depressing. Thankfully there was no time to dwell on it. He  stuck his gun into the waistband and covered it with his jumper.

John shut the door to his old flat, his old life, and didn’t look back.


	6. Moving In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I forgot to post last week. :\

John only realized that he had decided to move in with Sherlock without Sherlock’s permission when he was standing in front of 221 Baker Street’s black door, staring at his reflection in the brass numbers.

He figured he’d be laughed out as soon as he opened his mouth. He looked around, wondering just how many witnesses would be there to see him sent away.

There weren’t many people on the street.

John took that as a good sign and went ahead and knocked.

“Oh, you must be John!” the woman who answered exclaimed. She was older, dressed in a nice purple blouse and navy skirt. “Come in, come in,” she beckoned.

When John stepped in she said, “He’s been all a tizzy trying to find you.”

There was an alarming thud and a shout.

“Go on up, will you? I dare say he’ll be happy to see you.”

John adjusted his bag on his shoulder and climbed the stairs cautiously. When he stood on the landing he saw Sherlock, staring at him with an open mouth.

“There you are!”

“Here I am,” John said, hiking his bag back up on his shoulder. It slid down again almost immediately.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped. He stared at John’s bag.

“Is it alright if I stay here a few days?” John asked, cringing in on himself. This was awkward.

Sherlock didn’t pause to think before saying, “Yes, of course. The room upstairs is currently empty. Stay as long as you need.”

“Thanks,” John said, smiling slightly. He found Sherlock’s reaction endearing. Who else would have just accepted someone up and deciding to live with them? No one John knew. Not even John himself. Well, he might groan a bit about it but if Sherlock had shown up at his bedsit door he would have let him stay.

John stood, staring at Sherlock for so long that the man cleared his throat and looked away.

“Right,” John said, clearing his head with a shake. “I’ll just,” he jerked his chin up.

“Yes, good,” Sherlock said before breezing into the living room.

John climbed the stairs and set his bag on the bed. He’d been staring because he was smitten. Oh, god. He was in far too deep. He ran his hand through his hair. This was bad.

His mobile pinged and John dug it out of his pocket.

**Dating status change: LIVING with SHERLOCK HOLMES. Confirm?**

John didn’t think he should confirm he was living here. He had terrorists after him and Sherlock had an old lady answering the door for him. It was just a bad idea.

“Sherlock?” John called as he walked down the stairs.

“Confirm it,” Sherlock said, he was laying on the couch, hands folded under his chin.

John walked past him to peek out the window, wondering if he’d been followed from his meeting with the umbrella man and if anyone was watching him now.

“Confirm the living arrangements, John.”

John turned to him, “But—”

“If they plant a bomb it will do less damage here than in your bedsit.”

That was true. Here a bomb would take out maybe three buildings, probably ten-ish people. John’s bedsit was part of a complex, a single explosion could take out a hundred people or more.

Still, John hesitated. He didn’t want Sherlock wrapped up in this.

“They already know you’re dating me if they’ve hacked the system. It won’t change anything other than giving your previous neighbours a chance at life.”

Well, put that way John didn’t have a choice. He hit  **Yes** and put his mobile back in his pocket.

Sherlock hummed happily and closed his eyes. John swallowed thickly as he looked down at his… boyfriend? No, it wasn’t true. Flatmate? Sort of, it worked but didn’t really sum up their relationship. Friend? John thought so. They didn’t know each other, not really, but John trusted him and that was more than he could say for most everyone else he knew.

“So, where were you?”

“Um,” John felt a bit embarrassed but admitted, “I don’t know.”

One of Sherlock’s eyes popped open and it scanned John from head to toe.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

John was taken aback. Did Sherlock know his kidnapper? He must. John wanted to blurt out the question of who the mystery man was but as little as he knew Sherlock he did know that he wasn’t going to get any answers without providing his own first.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No,” John said, confused. He knew the person who kidnapped him and their topic of conversation with one look but he didn’t know the result of their conversation?

“Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.” Sherlock slid down and sat up. He looked at John, head cocked.

“Who was it?” John asked. When Sherlock didn’t say anything John prompted, “Who kidnapped me?”

“It was hardly a kidnapping, you went along willingly,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Think that through next time too. It’s much easier to track you if you keep the dating app running instead of ending the date.”

“Sherlock,” John said firmly.

“The man you met is the most dangerous man in London. At least, since I disposed of Moriarty.”

Disposed of? Did Sherlock kill someone?

What was he getting into here?

“Relax, I didn’t kill Moriarty,” Sherlock said as if he was reading John’s mind. “He killed himself while trying to kill me. And don’t worry about Mycroft, he let you come back so he must have liked you.”

Moriarty, Mycroft, Sherlock, terrorists… John was feeling a bit like he’d gone through the looking glass.

Just then John’s stomach growled. Both John and Sherlock looked down at it. Sherlock like it was a pet needing fed and John with a red face. He’d skipped breakfast, run halfway across town, got abducted then came back here. It was well past his lunchtime and it was only now that John even realized he was hungry.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and John’s pinged a date start request. Their living together would lower the amount of dating hours they needed but they were still required some until they were married.

John clicked  **Yes** and wondered how far they were going to take this. He found that having a wedding with Sherlock wasn’t very objectionable. John wasn’t going to walk down the aisle any time soon, but he could see it working if Sherlock’s life was always this exciting. Though, perhaps with fewer explosions and casualties.

“There’s a nice little Italian place I like to go when I’m hungry,” Sherlock said, standing up and straightening out his tight clothes.

John forced himself to look away.

“I know the owner,” continued Sherlock. “It’s not dinner time but he should be there by the time we arrive if we walk slowly.”

When John looked back Sherlock was putting on a coat that looked exactly like the one that had been burnt. This one was pristine though. Did he have more than one of those? They looked awfully expensive.

“Sounds good,” John said. He hoped he’d get to eat this time. The food had looked good at the Chinese place and John hoped to one day eat there. But, if Sherlock wanted Italian John wasn’t going to argue. At this point, he’d eat cardboard. Sauce covered noodles sounded amazing.

They walked at a leisurely pace, chatting about Sherlock’s work.

Sherlock told him about Moriarty, about how he’d rigged the elections so his illicit businesses would make more money. He told John all about the different things he’d used to deduce his identity and how Moriarty had slipped up when he started making terrorist organizations and Sherlock learned about him. Sherlock had thought the groups would fall apart without him, maybe not stop working but stop working together, and the fact that they hadn’t made Sherlock think there was someone else behind the scenes. He was trying to find that person but he was having no luck.

“So, they can take these cells down but without catching the person responsible new ones will just pop up,” Sherlock said.

“You’re brilliant,” John said. He shook his head. “I can’t believe you took down a real-life supervillain! It’s amazing. You’re amazing. And—” John realized Sherlock wasn’t beside him any longer. John looked around before seeing him behind. He’d stopped walking.

“Sherlock?”

He didn’t respond, just stood in place blinking rapidly, and John walked back. “You ok?” He worried he’d crossed a line. Had he come off as too starstruck?

When Sherlock came out of his daze he shook himself and asked, “Really?”

“Really, what?” John asked, worried that Sherlock had some sort of fit and that he had a medical condition John needed to be worried of.

“You think I’m amazing?”

John decided to keep an eye on his friend but that it might just be that he wasn’t used to compliments. “Of course! Who wouldn’t? Tracking down two hundred and forty different bank accounts? What you did was incredible.”

“Two hundred forty- _ three _ ,” Sherlock corrected with a smile.

“Then you fought him on a rooftop?”

“It was more of a battle of wits,” Sherlock downplayed.

“You wrestled and nearly fell off, he did fall,” John said, focusing in on the colourful parts of Sherlock’s story.

“Yes, neither of us was expecting that. I fell backwards and that’s the only reason I was safe from his sniper.” Sherlock frowned. “His right-hand man, Moran. I can’t find him anywhere,” he said with a huff.

“You’ll find him,” John said.

“You say that like it’s inevitable,” Sherlock said, stopping and holding a door open for John.

“It is,” John said assuredly. Sherlock was incredible, John had complete faith in him. They stepped into warmth and the smell of spices.

John slid into the booth by the window and took off his jacket. “This is nice,” he said.

Sherlock took off his coat and took the seat against the wall.

A man with long hair pulled back into a ponytail greeted Sherlock by name, handing both him and John menus.

“Anything on the menu, free for both you and your date,” he said, winking saucily at John.

John looked at Sherlock opened mouthed. What was this?

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock introduced.

“This man got me off a murder charge,” Angelo said, talking over Sherlock.

Oh, now it made sense. John relaxed.

Sherlock explained how he’d spoken to Lestrade and had been able to prove Angelo guilty of housebreaking, thus proving him innocent.

“He cleared my name,” Angelo said.

“I cleared it a bit,” Sherlock said.

John realized that Sherlock was chagrined that he hadn’t been able to prove Angelo innocent without proving him guilty of something else. John could picture it, Angelo, coming to him, pleading with him for help, Sherlock working tirelessly but running out of time.

“I’ll get a candle for the table, it’s more romantic,” Angelo said, smiling at them both.

“Thanks.” John smiled back before turning his attention to the menu.

Sherlock took one look at the menu and set it aside.

“The ravioli,” he said, apropos nothing.

“Hm?” John said. It took real effort to look away from the delicious sounding dishes.

“Angelo hand makes it, stuffed with cheese and mushrooms. I think you’ll like it.”

That did sound lovely. John set his menu aside.

Angelo returned with a candle. John ordered the ravioli and Sherlock ordered shrimp scampi. John watched the way Sherlock’s mouth moved as he gave both their orders.

“Should I have gotten wine?” Sherlock asked after Angelo left. There was a stiffness to him, an awkwardness. He felt wrong-footed.

John was already feeling warm despite the chill from the window. “No, water is good,” he said. He wanted to settle Sherlock and he reached out, placing his hand on Sherlock’s forearm.

Sherlock tensed further before looking at John and relaxing. He didn’t pull his arm away.

“Who was it?” John asked.

“Hm?” Sherlock looked a bit dazed.

“Who abducted me? Who’s Mycroft?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the name. “My brother.”

“Your… what?” John asked. He didn’t understand.

“Overbearing and has a flair for the dramatic.”

Well, John couldn’t disagree. He wondered if the brothers were on good terms. He tried to read it in Sherlock’s expression but he couldn’t. As far as he could tell Mycroft wasn’t after him and John decided that overbearing meant the man liked to mettle in his younger brother’s life. Sherlock must be quite a few years younger, John tried to picture Mycroft chasing his unruly brother ‘round the garden like he’d done with Harry and giggled.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

John shook his head. “Younger?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further. “I am, yes.”

It was madness, kidnapping someone to see if they were worthy of dating their sibling. But John’s whole life was madness since he met Sherlock and in a strange way, it was sweet. John still didn’t approve, but at least now he understood. He had been given the shovel talk.

“He cares about you,” John said.

Sherlock’s expression smoothed out. “He either knew it was fake or he approved. Either way, I imagine we won’t be hearing from him for some time.”

That was fine by John.

Just then the food arrived and John dug in, he held in a moan when the first bite hit his tongue. It was heavenly.

John ate his entire dish and half of Sherlock’s, at the man’s encouragement.

“I never eat it all,” he’d said, “and the leftovers always spoil in the fridge.”

Since Sherlock had eaten half John didn’t argue. He’d have liked to have Sherlock eat more but he wasn’t going to mother him. And he’d hate for it to go to waste.

On their way home, John felt as if it’d be easier to roll than walk. He was so full it hurt. He hadn’t had this much food in a long time.

Sherlock led the way, and before John knew it they were standing on the stoop, Sherlock knocking on his own door.

John frowned. When the woman from the flat below answered she gave Sherlock a hug. John still thought it was rather rude to just expect her there to open the door. He made a mental note to ask for his own set of keys. It wouldn’t do to be locked out of his flat or to rely on Sherlock or this woman.

“Mrs Hudson, John, John, Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson is my—rather,  _ our _ —landlady,” Sherlock introduced. “John will be taking the bedroom upstairs.”

“Surely you’ll be sharing a bedroom,” Mrs Hudson said.

Sherlock turned red and John piped up, “Taking things at a pace we’re comfortable with right now.”

Mrs Hudson cooed at them, saying it was romantic.

Sherlock practically ran up the stairs while John held out just long enough to be polite.

It was far to early for bed but John was knackered. He plopped down on the couch.

Sherlock had a television tucked in the corner and John turned it on, wanting both the noise and to see what the news was saying about the bombings. Sherlock sat down next to him, tilting him off balance and making him fall on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” John said as he righted himself. He could barely keep his eyes open. He tried to nestle into the couch and remind himself he couldn’t sleep yet. It was far too early in the day.

He decided to just rest his eyes for a bit. Listen to the reports. No need for visuals, he had been there, after all. Just a moment and then he’d go unpack.


	7. First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John navigates a life with Sherlock Holmes

John woke warm and with a stiff neck. He wiped the spit from his chin with a frown and blinked, trying to get his bearings.

“Don’t worry about it,” a deep voice said.

John lurched away and his face turned bright red. He’d fallen asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d  _ drooled _ . John was mortified.

Sherlock gave a very put-upon sigh and looked away from his phone at John. “I already said not to worry about it.”

“Right,” John said, ducking his head.

“End the date before going up to your bed,” Sherlock said. His attention went back to his phone.

John knew a dismissal when he saw one. He stood, stretched, wincing when his spine popped. That was when it occurred to him.

“Wait, you didn’t end the date?” he asked.

The date could be ended by either of them. John would have thought that Sherlock, who he suspected was absorbed with his phone only to avoid uncomfortable conversation, would have ended the date when he turned off the television. Of course, John thought Sherlock wouldn’t have let him sleep on his shoulder either.

“I believe cuddling is an acceptable date activity,” Sherlock said in a disinterested tone.

John knew Sherlock was uncomfortable but he suspected it wasn’t because Sherlock thought John had made a faux pas and that he had to put up with it. John thought it was because Sherlock actually hadn’t minded or, maybe, even found it enjoyable.

“And you’re alright with that?” he asked. “Cuddling?” he tacked on unnecessarily when Sherlock didn’t immediately answer.

Sherlock froze. John could tell he was making a decision.

“If it happens again I wouldn’t be opposed, as long as it stays cuddling.” He said the last bit with a bit of warning.

John had no intention to take advantage. He raised his hands and made a joke, “Here I thought the drool was going to be too far.”

Sherlock looked at the lapel of his suit and sighed dramatically. “Well, if the tables were turned I’d thank you to excuse my saliva.”

Something warm settled in John’s chest. Sherlock didn’t mind cuddling. John wondered if this could work. He decided not to press the issue. If their fake relationship was turning real John wanted it to happen naturally. He wasn’t going to make a plan or anything.

John looked at his watch. It was eleven pm, a perfectly appropriate bedtime. John’s body seemed to agree and he yawned. Something in John was pleased to see Sherlock mimic him.

“Well, goodnight,” John said, not feeling clever enough to keep up their banter.

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock said. He didn’t stand or show any intention to go to his bed.

John decided it was none of his business. He yawned again as he climbed the stairs and once there he stashed his gun, which he’d left on the duffel into the nightstand drawer and set the bag on the floor. He’d deal with unpacking in the morning. Pants and a vest would be fine to sleep in.

As he settled in between the cold sheets he found he missed Sherlock’s warmth. He told himself he was being silly as he punched the pillow to fluff it up. The sheets were worn, clearly used, but they weren’t musty as if they’d been sitting in the room. Mrs Hudson must have changed the bedding while he slept. He made a mental note to thank her in the morning.

He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He found himself thinking about a life with Sherlock, how a night of cuddling in front of the television was something he could get used to. He thought about Sherlock leaning over, resting his head on John’s shoulder. How John had his arm on the back of the couch wrapped around Sherlock. The way his curls would tickle his lips…

John drifted off.

\----

Gunshots. People screaming. John was running but he didn’t know where to. He was lost in a large city, the Afghanistan sun beating down on him, making him wearier and gear heavier.

John was pulled into a dwelling. A man was screaming. A gunshot. Fatal. Nothing John could do.

The man, with dark curly hair and a long coat (how could he stand it in this heat?), pulled him back and had him look again. Kidney stones, John diagnosed.

The man who’d caught him pointed to himself. Oh, god, he was the one who’d been shot. He was dying!

“Hold on, Sherlock,” John said to him. “I’ll get us help. Just hold on.”

John told the man with kidney stones to watch Sherlock as he ran back out onto the streets to try to find someone to help. His nurse, Murray, if John could just find him he’d find the rest of his team and they could airlift Sherlock out and to a hospital.

The outside had changed when John left. He was in London now. It was cold and the sound of gunshots was gone. There weren’t people running screaming. In fact, John couldn’t see anyone anywhere. He was in his cashmere jumper again. John didn’t have his kit. Where was his medical kit?

There was no one to ask.

John saw his kit leaned against a fruit stand. He nearly fell over in relief. He could help Sherlock with this, keep him alive until he could find help.

Just as John grabbed it Sherlock called to him from the doorway.

“Watson! Look out!” It wasn’t Sherlock’s voice. That was Sholto.

The building exploded, the blast blowing John backwards, the heat singed his hair and his lips.

John needed to get to Sherlock/James. He stood up and into the inferno.

There was no one there.

John ran in, choking on smoke. “Sherlock! James!” he shouted, hoping that one of them could hear.

James was there, half burnt, but alive. John thanked god and set his pack down. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. You’re going to be fine,” he said.

“Look out,” James gasped, looking behind John.

John turned, to see Mary. She was holding a rifle.

She pulled the trigger.

John woke with a shout. His shoulder hurting, an echo, a phantom, he tried to get his breathing under control.

He heard someone thudding up the stairs and he wildly thought that Mary was after him. He reached for the gun as the door opened.

Sherlock was there, silhouetted by the hall light. “John! Are you alright?”

John shut the drawer and flopped back on the bed. “Fine,” he said. He felt the tears coming on and he didn’t want to have an audience. “Nightmare,” he choked, trying to hold in a sob.

Sherlock hesitated. John couldn’t see his face and he knew he didn’t have it in him to say another word. His willpower was crumbling as the seconds ticked by.

When Sherlock shut the door and went back downstairs John let the tears come. He hadn’t wanted Sherlock with him, but at the same time, he was sad the man had left.

He was alone.

John sniffled in the dark and wiped at his eyes. He started shaking and he curled in on himself. He knew his therapist would want him to analyse the dream but he didn’t care to. He’d had a flashback on the pavement as his surgery blew up. Of course, he was having nightmares. Didn’t take a genius to figure that out.

A sound cut into John’s thoughts. A note, long and high. Followed by another and then a third.

Sherlock was playing his violin.

It was a soothing piece John thought he might have heard before but couldn’t name.

John’s breathing evened out and slowed as he listened. On the second piece of music, one he did not recognize, his eyes dried.

He wasn’t alone. Sherlock was down there, playing for him. Giving him the space he needed and comforting him at the same time.

John felt himself smile. He felt warm, safe.

On the third piece, he fell into a peaceful sleep.

\----

John woke to the sound of gunshots.

_ Sherlock, _ he thought, terrified his friend had been killed. He threw the blankets aside. He reached for his gun but found the drawer open and empty.

He cursed. His cane was leaned against the nightstand. John didn’t stop to ponder its appearance just took it in hand and carefully made his way downstairs.

“Bored!” The shout was punctuated with a gunshot. “Bored!” Sherlock shouted again.

John peeked into the living room to see Sherlock with his pistol. He was shooting the wall.

“Are you insane?!” John shouted. He didn’t lose his grip on his cane until he got the gun from Sherlock. The man handed it over easily enough but flopped dramatically onto the couch in a huff when it was gone.

John popped the magazine and emptied the chamber.

He glared at his friend. All the warmth he felt for him last night was gone.

“I thought someone had broke in!” John shouted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and it just made John angrier.

“I thought someone had killed you!” John seethed.

“Whoo, hoo,” Mrs Hudson rapped on the open door. “Are you boys alright?”

John felt his face heat. He looked around for something to put on.

“We’re fine, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said. He stood, moving so her line of sight to John was blocked. He took off his blue silk dressing gown and handed it blindly backwards at John.

John took it, put it on and knotted it tight after dropping his firearm in one of the pockets. The gown was too large, the sleeves covered his hands completely but it was better than standing around in his pants.

“What did you do to my wall?!” she demanded in a shrill voice.

Sherlock smiled at it proudly.

Mrs Hudson told Sherlock off and said she’d take it out of his rent. He didn’t seem disturbed by this but John was. How much was rent here? It was a prime spot, it had to be expensive. Much more than he could afford, even if he split it with Sherlock.

John licked his lips and focused on Sherlock. Should he bring it up with him or Mrs Hudson directly?

He hadn’t made a decision when Mrs Hudson left them to go back to her flat.

Sherlock it was, then.

“Um, Sherlock…” John started.

Sherlock turned to look at him. He glanced at the wall, where a yellow smiley face he’d sprayed was now filled with bullet holes and smirked at John as if it were some sort of joke.

John dismissed the idea of talking about the rent. It could be sorted later. Dealing with this was more important.

“Why did you do that?” John demanded.

“I was bored,” Sherlock said. The smile was gone and he settled on the couch. He was wearing thin pyjama pants and a vest turned inside out.

“That’s no excuse!” John seethed. He wanted to tell Sherlock about his nightmares, about how what he’d done might trigger another one. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He felt ashamed by them. “What if the neighbours call the police? What then? Do you want to be caught with an unregistered handgun?”

Sherlock tilted his head at John. “The real question is why you have an unregistered handgun.”

_ Because there was a time I couldn’t sleep without a gun by my side. Because I needed an escape route when life became too much. _

Sherlock must have read John’s expression,  have seen  the depression because he asked, “Are you better now?”

No, he wasn’t. Not really. Because John couldn’t stay here, become part of Sherlock’s life. John realized he wanted to date Sherlock for real but Sherlock had made it abundantly clear he wasn’t interested. Sherlock must be able to read that on him too and would kick him out as soon as John was safe.

“I think I’ll hold onto the gun for now,” Sherlock said and reached out, palm up, for the weapon.

“Like hell you are!” John snarled. “I won’t have you using the wall as target practice!”

“John,” Sherlock said flatly, “You can’t be trusted with it.”

“I’m fine,” John said emphatically. And he was. It was the future that worried him. Right now, his depression was the last thing on his mind.

“You need it. The comfort of it.”

“Yes,” John said.

Sherlock nodded gravely. “Alright.”

“No more target practice,” John said, needing Sherlock to understand there were limits.

“Agreed,” Sherlock said.

John jerked his head once. “Good.”

Now would be the time where he would talk about the rent but he thought if he did, he’d find he couldn’t pay it and he’d be out on his arse. Besides, Sherlock would bring it up with him when he felt it was necessary.

He shifted his weight between his feet. He wanted breakfast but it was rude to help himself to Sherlock’s food. He’d need to go to the shops. But he wouldn’t get paid for a bit. Maybe even longer, since his building exploded.

“Tea?” Sherlock asked.

“Thanks,” John said. “I’ll just,” he angled his head to the bathroom.

Sherlock went into the kitchen and John went to use the loo then upstairs to his room to change. He carried Sherlock’s robe back downstairs where he found Sherlock sipping tea.

“Ta.” John took the extra mug and sipped it.

“So,” John said, tea finished. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll examine whatever evidence I can find from the crime scenes and talk to my informant.”

John nodded, that sounded good.

“What should I do?” he asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips and John knew he didn’t feel comfortable saying anything without more information. He set his tea down and looked into John’s eyes.

“Be careful,” he said gravely.

John shivered. He decided he’d keep his gun on him. It would serve the dual purpose of protection and keeping it away from his mad flatmate.

Sherlock stared into middle distance and sipped his tea.

Just then John’s stomach made it’d displeasure known by rumbling loudly. John felt his face heat. That was twice now.

“Go to the shops, I don’t have any food here,” Sherlock said, eyes still unfocused.

“Er,” John pursed his lips. He didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t even buy himself bread. Maybe he could go out, walk around the park for a bit and say he ate out? That might work if his stomach doesn’t rumble again.

“Take my card,” Sherlock said, holding out a bank card.

“Oh,” John reached for it before pausing. Was this really ok? Was he taking advantage?

“I don’t have any food in the flat,” Sherlock reiterated. “You can shop for me too.”

John took the card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I'm done with the Advent Calendar fic I'll be updating this more regularly. Thanks for sticking with me! <3


	8. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta.

Not knowing what Sherlock liked to eat John bought the basics. Bread, milk, marmalade and yoghurt. He was tempted by the meat at the counter but walked past it. He shouldn’t buy anything too expensive without knowing what Sherlock’s budget was. Instead, he bought noodles and a can of bolognese sauce. Walking past produce he decided a couple of apples and a head of lettuce wouldn’t go amiss. That broke the dam and John ended up with bananas, eggs, chicken, cheese, lunch meat and various other items.

He fought with the chip and pin machine, the people in the queue huffing impatiently and by the time he got to pay he was frazzled. He’d spent far too much money. What had he been thinking? Sherlock was going to kill him. It wasn’t like he could easily tell the cashier to ring some of the more expensive things off. As embarrassing as that would be it was worse here because everyone was staring at him and he’d have to attract the attention of the one worker, thus gaining the attention of the entire store.

He licked his lips as he stuck the card in.

_ Please go through, _ he mentally begged it. He couldn’t stand it if he overspent and got declined now.

The machine accepted the payment and printed out a receipt. John sighed in relief and took his bags.

By the time he got to Baker Street, his arms felt like they were going to fall off. He vowed to never go shopping like that again. From now on there would be a list.

He had to knock when he got to the door, as he didn’t yet have a key.

“Oh, John, it’s terrible,” Mrs Hudson said as she let him in.

“What’s wrong?” John asked. He was terrified something had happened to Sherlock while he was gone. 

She shook her head and he whole body shook as she did.

“Are you ok?” he asked, thinking that, as the flat’s first line of defence, she’d been injured by intruders.

“I’m fine. It’s—”

A voice from the top of the stairs cut her off. “John Watson?”

As footsteps came down John recognized Lestrade, the officer that had questioned him at the hospital. “Yeah,” John said. “Is Sherlock alright?”

“We need to ask you some questions,” Lestrade said.

“Alright,” John agreed. He should have known this was coming. He had found the bomb, it was his building that had blown up. Of course the police wanted to talk to him. “Is Sherlock ok?” he asked again.

“Why don’t you come to the station—”

“I need to put the shopping away and check on Sherlock,” John said. Why weren’t they answering his question? What had happened to Sherlock while he was gone?

Lestrade wouldn’t let him up the stairs. He bullied John out the door, the shopping left on the floor. John prayed that Mrs Hudson would put it away for him. As he was chivvied into the back of a police car he was thankful that he wasn’t in handcuffs but worried what that meant.

They crawled through London traffic and came to a stop outside Bart’s Hospital.

“Oh, god,” John gasped.

This was why they wouldn’t answer John’s question. Sherlock was in hospital.

Lestrade exited the car and John tried to do the same. The door didn’t open. He’d been locked in. Lestrade started walking away and John rapped on the window.

“Hey,” he shouted, “let me out.” He needed to see Sherlock. He’d been injured and it was all John’s fault. The gun was upstairs, John had hidden it in a separate place than the magazine. Not because he didn’t trust Sherlock but because… ok, he didn’t trust Sherlock. Not with a gun.

That was a depressing thought.

He hadn’t trusted Sherlock, his boyfriend-thing, and now the man was in hospital. Probably because John had hidden a weapon that could have saved him instead of trusting him and them hiding it together.

Lestrade didn’t pay any attention to John and soon he was out of sight.

John leaned back with a sigh.

What was he going to do now?

He looked morosely at the hospital.

_ I hope Sherlock is ok, _ John thought.  _ Please, God, let him be ok. _

The door opened and John popped up straight.

Lestrade came out and John pounded on the window, trying to get his attention.

Then the woman who had been at the hospital when he’d been in, Donovan her name was, came out.

And then Sherlock came out.

John went limp with relief.

He took in Sherlock. His hair no longer sleep rumpled but tamed into sleek curls. He wasn’t in pyjamas but was back in a suit with his wool coat and a scarf.

“This is completely unnecessary,” Sherlock complained as the other passenger door opened.

John watched as Sherlock folded himself in and sat. Somehow he managed to flop down and do it elegantly.

“I’ve already told you everything you need to know—” Sherlock stopped and looked at John.

John realized his hand had moved on its own. It was curled around Sherlock’s arm. John’s other hand was lifted, held in mid-air in front of Sherlock’s face.

“Are you alright?” John asked. He didn’t know what to do with his hands and therefore they remained where they were.

Sherlock looked confused. “Yes,” he said.

Then John realized he wasn’t confused, he was worried about John’s sanity.

“Oh.” John put his hands back in his lap. “They wouldn’t tell me what was going on, if you were alright, then we pulled in here…”

Sherlock’s face softened just long enough for John to see fondness. It returned to haughty derision in the next instant.

“Why are you dragging John along? He had nothing to do with it. Did you lock him in?” Sherlock fired off the questions at lightspeed.

“We just have a few questions for you both. And we need to get Doctor Watson’s statement in person.”

So, this was about the bombing. John relaxed as the car pulled away from the kerb. He didn’t know anything and he’d tell them that and everything would be fine. They already knew he was a drugging victim, blowing him up was just an escalation.

Sherlock was still rattling off questions, interspersed with insults, without waiting for any response.

John didn’t particularly like these two officers, but Sherlock was being rather rude. John wanted to distract his flatmate/boyfriend. He thought that maybe Sherlock was worked up because they’d worried John. So, John needed to show Sherlock that he was ok and, hopefully, that would calm him down.

Carefully, John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. He interlaced their fingers and Sherlock cut off mid-sentence.

John saw Lestrade’s eyes in the rear-view and Donovan turned to look. Both of them gaped at Sherlock then at John.

Sherlock seemed to be in shock too.

Oh, god, had he screwed up? He didn’t really care about Lestrade and Donovan, but had he embarrassed Sherlock? Had he overstepped? John thought that hand holding was a step down from cuddling. But they were in semi-public. In front of Sherlock’s coworkers. 

After what seemed like an eternity Sherlock unfroze. John waited for him to take his hand away but he didn’t. Instead, he used his thumb to stroke John’s finger. He smiled at John softly before leaning back into the seat.

“Don’t do that again,” Sherlock told the two up front and with that, he was quiet for the rest of the ride.

John was quiet too. Sherlock’s hand was warm. Large, sinewy and strong. With his thumb, John felt scars and the manicured tips of Sherlock’s nails.

So, John mused, he does take care of himself a little. Perhaps Sherlock was just skinny. His body like his fingers, long and lean. Perhaps he’d just gotten caught up in the case and didn’t have a chance to go to the shops. That thought cheered John up.

If Sherlock had connections like he had with Angelo all over town he might never need to go to the shops. Just pop in wherever for a bite. He probably didn’t have enough connections to have a normal meal schedule, though.

That was where John was going to come in. He’d been given Sherlock’s bank card with the instructions to get them food. The relationship may be fake but Sherlock was treating John like he would a boyfriend. Because that’s what significant others did, feed each other up.

Perhaps they really were dating and Sherlock just didn’t want to marry. That was fine by John. Marriage was a big commitment. It was ok to take things slow.

John was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn’t notice them parking at NSY. He only came back to reality when Sherlock took his hand away.

Lestrade opened the door for John and Donovan for Sherlock.

The four of them made their way through the door, up an elevator and across a floor to an office. Lestrade took out a key and opened the door.

Sherlock must have come here a lot because he marched in as if he owned the place and sat down, legs up on the other chair, taking the top folder off the stack on Lestrade’s desk, opening it up before declaring it boring and throwing it to the side.

Lestrade called him a menace, which, John was starting to think was a fair description of the man.

Somehow that made John like him more.

Lestrade took his seat and told John to sit. Sherlock looked up like he’d forgotten John was there before moving his legs off the second chair. John had to squeeze past a filing cabinet and Sherlock’s chair before he could sit.

“I’ll need statements from both of you,” Lestrade said, holding out a pile of papers for each of them. “Tell me about your day from when you woke up, anything you might have noticed that was unusual, everything you noticed at the surgery and everything you saw when you were leaving.”

John nearly groaned. He hadn’t noticed anything, really, he’d been too tired. Would he have to say that he didn’t sleep well? Would he have to explain why?

Sherlock looked mutinous. “I already told you everything, why do you need me to—”

Lestrade cut him off. “You know why. I don’t know why we have to do this every time, Sherlock. Just do like Doctor Watson and get on with it.”

John had a single sentence down but with that, he looked up. Sherlock was glaring daggers at Lestrade. They seemed to be having a silent fight.

Whatever it was over Sherlock didn’t win. Lestrade left, closing the door to the office behind him.

John looked to Sherlock, wanting to ask what that was about but Sherlock was swiping Lestrade’s nice pen off his desk and started writing. John frowned and got back to his statement.

Lestrade came back. He had two cups, one in each hand. “Didn’t know how you take it,” he said, setting one cup in front of John. John caught a whiff of strong coffee.

“Ta,” John said and moved the cup to the side so he wouldn’t accidentally tip if over while he was working. Also, he didn’t want to smell it anymore and he placed it as far away as he thought he could without being rude. There was no way John was going to drink it. In fact, he probably wouldn’t be able to drink coffee again for a year.

“He doesn’t want your swill,” Sherlock said.

“What?” Lestrade was visibly taken aback. “I know the coffee isn’t great but it’s not swill.”

“He was just drugged drinking a coffee. A fact you are well aware of considering…” Sherlock took a sip from the cup and made a face. “…you put sugar in.”

“I always put sugar in,” Lestrade said, defending himself.

“Then you forgot that John was recently drugged.”

“Of course not!” Lestrade said but it sounded false to John.

They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes.

“Are you done with your statement, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, finally breaking it.

Sherlock didn’t answer, he only stared at him.

“Great, let’s go for a little walk then,” Lestrade said. He bullied Sherlock out of the room.

John watched them, concerned. There was something else going on here.

Donovan came in after they left and shut the door. “You done with that?” she asked, pointing at John’s statement.

“Er, yeah,” John said.

“Great!” she said with false cheer. She took it and put it in a folder on the desk.

That done, she levelled a weighty stare at John.

“Let’s talk about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes.”


	9. A Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta

John felt his hackles rise.

“What about it?” he asked darkly.

She shifted the papers around Lestrade’s desk, pulling out a folder. She rifled through it before turning it to John.

The page said: **Status: Living Together**

“And?” John asked.

“We were at Sherlock’s flat. Your stuff is in a second bedroom. Before Sherlock, you were having trouble getting hours.”

“So?” John demanded.

“So, I believe he conned you into a scheme. Got you to go along with him because you’re in a tight spot.” Her countenance changed. “If you fill out a statement I’ll let you go.”

John considered her offer. “Alright,” he agreed.

Her eyes lit up as she handed over the papers.

John nodded his thanks and picked up a pen. On the papers, he wrote that Sherlock and he were living in separate rooms because they were taking things slow. That Lestrade and Donovan were picking on them. That he’d repeatedly had to defend his relationship with no evidence against it. That he was being coerced into writing this statement.

“There you go,” John said, sliding the papers at her so hard they flew off the end of the desk.

She caught the top one and pursed her lips and glared at him occasionally as she read.

“Can I go now?” John said, standing.

“Fine,” she spat. “But if we find out later that you’re scheming with _him,”_ she said the pronoun with venom, “don’t expect this offer to come up again.”

“Look,” John said, “I know your job is hard and that Sherlock isn’t that nice to you. And granted, he’s a little odd, but he’s sweet. I think you need to focus less on trying to get revenge for whatever he’s done and more on the crimes you’ve been assigned.” He stared pointedly at the unsolved pile on Lestrade’s desk. It was alarmingly large.

John wasn’t going to pretend Sherlock was a saint, especially after that car ride. Plus he was still a little peeved at him for the gunshots this morning. With two officers after him, it likely wasn’t an acephobic, homophobic or a biphobic thing. He knew how irritating consultants were in the army. Especially when they refused to follow protocol. Still, this bullying needed to stop.

“Tsk.” She curled her lip as she made the sound.

The door flew open and Sherlock stood in it. “Ready to go?” he asked John.

“Yes,” John said. He took Sherlock’s hand as they walked out.

“Doctor Watson!”

John turned to see Lestrade running up to him.

Sherlock let go of John and kept walking. John was tempted to run after him to hold his hand again but reminded himself that he wasn’t twelve and was in the middle of a police station.

“Look,” Lestrade’s face was pinched and he looked like he was at the end of his rope. “Sherlock is a great man.”

“Yes,” John agreed.

“But he’s not a good one. Watch out for yourself.”

John was livid. “Sherlock Holmes is a bloody saint compared to you lot,” John hissed quietly, trying not to make a scene. He glared at the man before stalking to the elevator.

He kept up his righteous anger all the way out the front door and was still huffing angerly when he stood next to Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his hand up and opened the door for John before sliding in himself.

“Clever of you to hold hands,” Sherlock said, his hands folded in his lap.

“What?” John asked.

“It really sold the relationship. I’m assuming you said we have separate rooms because we’re taking it slow?”

“Yes,” John said. He had a bad feeling about where this conversation was going. “Why were they in your flat to begin with?”

Sherlock waved the question away. “They can’t prove the relationship is a fake unless we tell them. Next time I know they’re stopping by we can cuddle on the couch again. That should shut them up for a bit.”

So, Sherlock still thought the relationship was a fake. John hadn’t made any progress at all. And Sherlock was using them cuddling as evidence. Maybe he hadn’t enjoyed it after all.

John felt his hand tighten and loosen. He did it a couple more times, trying to erase the memory of Sherlock’s hand in his.

“Yeah,” he agreed dejectedly. He didn’t really want to cuddle if it was about proving a point.

“Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked.

“Not really,” John said. He actually felt a little sick.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and John looked away.

After a minute Sherlock started shifting uncomfortably. John watched Sherlock’s reflection in the rear-view mirror. He opened his mouth to speak several times before thinking better of it and closing it.

“What did he say?” Sherlock asked, finally.

John looked at him and saw that Sherlock was acting like he didn’t care. John might have bought it too, the act was very convincing. But there was something about Sherlock’s face… There was a tightness around his eyes and his mouth that wouldn’t be there if he truly didn’t care.

“He said you were a great man,” John said. It wasn’t a lie.

Sherlock gave him a glare for his trouble. “And?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” John lied.

This seemed to upset Sherlock and he fell back into his seat with a huff.

John wondered if not knowing was making it harder for him. If he was imagining all the things that could have been said. John did that sometimes.

He waited and when Sherlock didn’t relax or start up a conversation John said, “He said you weren’t a good man.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said. He relaxed as if this wasn’t surprising or upsetting.

“I told him you were a saint,” John said, because, damnit, Sherlock was a good person.

Sherlock laughed. “Well, I’m sure that sold them on our relationship.”

And John’s mood, which had improved with Sherlock’s laughter, plummeted. This fake relationship was starting to feel like a one-sided romance. He decided to distract himself.

“She didn’t ask me anything about the bomb.” And that was strange to him. He would have thought, that since he discovered it and was seen running from the scene that they would have had a few questions for him.

“One of the terrorist groups took credit for them this morning.”

“Oh,” John frowned. “That’s good.” It was, but for some reason, it didn’t feel that way.

“Not really,” Sherlock said. “If they wanted you just discredited they’ve pinned it on you. That they didn’t means, most likely, that they’re planning on killing you.”

“Oh,” John said.

“This is so exciting!” Sherlock said with a gleeful smile.

The cab pulled up to the kerb and Sherlock left John to pay. John pulled out his billfold. He knew full well that he didn’t have a pound to his name but he thought he should at least act as he did. He opened the wallet, the lie of forgetting his bank card already on his tongue when Sherlock’s bank card fell out.

John thought he should probably call Sherlock back so he could ask if he could use it but it wouldn’t matter in the end. John couldn’t pay. Sherlock would have to. He handed the card to the cabbie and after running it the cabbie handed it back.

Not wanting to lose it John stuck it back in his wallet, making a mental note to give it back to Sherlock.

\----

It was surprisingly easy to get into a routine at 221B. After you got used to the eyeballs, that is.

John woke early, usually found Sherlock already (or still) awake. They had tea and toast together on the days Mrs Hudson didn’t cook for them and looked at the newspaper. John had found that Sherlock got bored easily so he would point out possible cases. So far, they hadn’t gone on any but John would do it anyway because when Sherlock wasn’t declaring the stories boring he was telling John who the criminal was.

“Painting gone missing,” John said.

“Boring,” Sherlock said. “I’ve already solved two cases relating to paintings and I detest repetition.”

John thought that Sherlock solved an awful lot of murders and never said that but thought it best to keep his mouth shut.

He went back to the paper and was searching for something else when Mrs Hudson popped her head in.

“You-hoo, boys. Client.”

A rather portly man holding a manila envelope came into the room.

Sherlock stood and stalked over, looking the man up and down before walking around him in a circle.

“Show me the letters,” he demanded.

 The man was clearly at a loss on what to make of Sherlock and handed over the envelope stiffly.

Sherlock opened it and took out a letter.

John got up to get a look at it.

It had pictures of dancing men on it.

“My wife,” the man said, finding his voice. “She’s been receiving these. She’s always very upset when she gets one and won’t tell me what they mean.”

Sherlock took out another letter, this one with more dancing men but not the same ones.

“How many?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know,” the man admitted. “She started burning them as they came. I took these ones straight from the mail.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled out another letter with an almost manic smile.

“I’ll take the case.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @gizmotrinket221 on Twitter


End file.
